


Naiad of the Black Lake

by SinpaiCasanova (Bladerunnerblue)



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky is a mischievous little shit, Cabin Fic, Cabin recluse Steve, Dubious Consent, Ethereal elements, Explicit Sexual Content, Forest Sex, Healing Sex, M/M, Naiad Bucky Barnes, Naiads, Nymphs & Dryads, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pranks and Practical Jokes, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Retirement, Sleep Sex, Sleep disorders, Top Steve Rogers, Touch-Starved, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladerunnerblue/pseuds/SinpaiCasanova
Summary: It’s quiet, as usual, the moonlit night around him utterly still–yet pregnant with apprehension so thick Steve can feel it settling on his sweat-dampened skin like a physical weight; the calm before the storm, he thinks. Yet, despite what his paranoid mind is telling him, no one else but Steve is here. There’s no other detectable heartbeat pumping alongside his own, no shallow breath, nor soft footsteps on the creaking floorboards. Nothing.Whatever woke him is long gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of water lilies in their wake.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	Naiad of the Black Lake

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful art featured in this fic is made by [kocuria](https://t.co/EcgI1p9TRM)

* * *

Bright blue eyes snap open at the sound of a loud _bang_ , and for one heart-stopping second, Steve believes he’s been thrown back in time to Mussolini’s Italy, trading watch shifts with the Howlies as the Nazi’s advance across the field. He’s out of bed in an instant, crouching defensively on the braided blue rug with his vibranium shield clutched tightly in his trembling hand; listening, watching, waiting for _something_ to happen.

But of course, nothing happens. Nothing ever does.

His head is still stuffed full of cotton from sleep, but the adrenaline burning through his veins like a backdraft of fire is quick to sweep away the residual fog from his mind, bringing him back to the present one agonizing heartbeat at a time. He blinks, bleary-eyed and weary, glancing around as his eyes rapidly adjust to the darkness.

Steve releases the breath he’d been holding shakily, slowly realizing that he isn’t actually on some European battlefield with the Howlies, or beating back the hoard of Chitauri that poured through an opening in the sky above him with the Avengers. The handmade rug under his feet and the solid mattress pressing into his back tell him that he's home, and the calendar hanging on the wall near the bedroom door says that it's October of 2020; a full eight years since he'd disappeared from society.

It’s quiet, as usual, the moonlit night around him utterly still–yet pregnant with apprehension so thick Steve can feel it settling on his sweat-dampened skin like a physical weight; _the calm before the storm,_ he thinks. Yet, despite what his paranoid mind is telling him, no one else but Steve is here. There’s no other detectable heartbeat pumping alongside his own, no shallow breath, nor soft footsteps on the creaking floorboards. Nothing.

Whatever woke him is long gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of water lilies in their wake.

“Shit,” Steve sighs, finally allowing himself to collapse onto the floor; his weary legs haphazardly sprawled out in front of him. More often than not, Steve has to remind himself that he isn't Captain America anymore, that he left that mantle behind in 2012, and that only one person on this godforsaken planet–Natasha Romanoff herself–knows where he is. The suit Coulson had given him is stored underneath the floorboards, where it's been sitting undisturbed, collecting dust alongside his go-bag for the past eight years. The shield in his hand has a permanent home underneath his bed, where it silently waits to be needed again. 

Steve isn't naive enough to think that the world has forgotten about him just because he’d disappeared off the radar. Someone, somewhere, is looking for him, scouring the earth with every resource they have at their disposal just to find him. It’s inevitable, Steve knows, that sooner rather than later, he’ll be dragged kicking and screaming right back into the fray he clawed himself out of. He just hopes, at the very least, that when he has to suit up again, it'll be on his terms and no one else's.

As the panicked drumming of his heart finally slows, Steve reluctantly spares a glance at the digital clock sitting on the nightstand. It’s half past midnight, so as usual, he only managed to grab a few precious hours of sleep before something inevitably woke him. But then again, Steve’s used to that sort of thing. A full night’s rest is something of a myth to him. Something he’s heard about, but never experienced. And at this rate, it’s possible that he never will.

With a sigh, Steve picks himself up off the floor and heads for the opened bedroom door. The vibranium shield is still clutched in his hand as he quietly moves through the short hallway between his bedroom and the living area, making his way toward the kitchen, where the sound that woke him most likely originated from.

Steve isn’t sure what he expects to see when he warily rounds the corner. His home isn’t exactly close to any populated areas, so a break-in, while still possible, isn’t likely. Briefly, he assumes that maybe an animal managed to find a way into the cabin, looking to get into the pantry full of goodies. That thought, however, evaporates into thin air the instant Steve steps foot into the kitchen.

“What the hell?” His jaw drops, more from a shocked sense of awe than anything else. It’s by far the strangest thing he’s ever seen, which is an odd thing for Steve to admit, considering that he’s encountered literal space aliens and once fought a power-hungry nazi with a red skull for a face over a cosmic cube. But still, it’s... _fascinating_ to behold, despite the circumstances surrounding it.

Steve sets his shield down against the leg of the kitchen table, gazing up as he slowly circles the little wooden island next to it. What little dishes he has are stacked intricately on the surface of the countertop. Glass cups are balanced precariously on ceramic plates, and the polished silver cutlery that once filled up the caddy in his kitchen drawer now adorn the tops of the odd structures before him, standing on end like flags on a castle; all of it seemingly held together by nothing more than the air in the room.

The circular chandelier that hangs from the ceiling above is slowly spinning as well, all six candles lit up to display the shadow of what looks like a geometric symbol reflecting on the ceiling. A trident in the heart of a circle, perhaps? Steve couldn’t say what it was actually supposed to be, if it was even meant to be anything at all, but something in the back of his mind was telling him that _someone_ or _something_ was trying to make contact with him. Reaching out to say hello.

Steve rakes his hand through the tangle of bedhead his hair has become overnight, unsure of what to make of all this. A cursory glance around the small square that makes up his kitchen and living area reveals nothing out of the ordinary, and the heavy wooden door–the only entrance or exit besides the few square windows scattered about the cabin–is still bolted up tight just the way he’d left it a few hours ago. 

There is, however, a set of footprints on the hardwood floor that Steve can just barely see, leading from the door to the kitchen, then back out again. Steve flips on the overhead lights and kneels to examine them, but what he ultimately finds ends up leaving him with more questions that he can’t even begin to answer.

Whoever broke into his home was barefoot, which is odd since the terrain in this part of the forest is particularly rocky and jagged, far too treacherous to forego shoes without damaging your feet. They also have a slight build due to the smaller size and lighter weight distribution of the tracks themselves. And lastly, unless it had recently rained, they were also swimming in the lake prior to breaking in, if the drying pools of water that are splattered around the damp imprints is anything to go by, which is even more alarming since the lake tends to dip into frigid temperatures around this time of year.

Quite simply, Steve has no explanation for any of this, because to him, it’s just not possible.

What’s even weirder is that absolutely nothing is stolen, nor is anything else out of place, but to Steve, that doesn’t exactly bring him much comfort because why would anyone break into an isolated cabin in the middle of a dense forest just to fuck with an old relic like him?

The moment Steve takes a step forward to try and disassemble the floating mass of dinnerware, it all collapses like a sandcastle caught up in the tide, shattering dramatically onto the floor below. There are shards of glass and ceramic scattered around his bare feet, and thankfully, it’s nothing that can’t be replaced on one of his infrequent trips into town. But still, Steve is left shaken by the fact that he’s not as alone up here in the wilderness as he originally assumed he’d be.

With that thought in mind, he carefully sidesteps the mess at his feet and follows the damp imprints to the front door; his shield once more clutched in his hand. The door is promptly flung open, and Steve steps out onto the dry grass, lowering himself into a defensive stance the second his eyes meet the trees of the old forest around him, and nothing more.

“Who’s out there?!” Steve hollers, dropping his voice into his patented _‘Captain America is about to force-feed you a vibranium frisbee’_ tone. He hasn’t used that tone of voice in almost a decade, and unfortunately, it’s glaringly obvious that he's a bit rusty when the effect is somewhat lost by the rasp in his throat. Not that it really matters, though. Even on his off days, Steve’s mere presence is more than enough to incite fear in the hearts of would-be villains and terrorists alike.

But of course, this time, there’s no one here for Steve to use that on. Or, at least, no one that Steve can see. 

“Hello?” Steve tries instead, changing tack to something gentler. Though, as he expects, silence is all he’s met with. 

A tense moment passes by without incident, and Steve finally lowers the shield a bit and ventures out into the clearing, briefly scanning the perimeter for anything that's out of place. He finds nothing, much to his dissatisfaction, but as he nears the edge of the lake that sits behind his home, the unmistakable sensation of eyes settling on his skin pricks at his flesh; raising the hair on his neck and forearms. 

“Is someone there?” Steve tries again, knowing in the back of his mind that only silence will be there to answer him. “I mean you no harm, if your intentions are the same. It’s alright. You can come out–”

Steve stiffens as a cool breeze suddenly kicks up around him, gently caressing the bare skin of his chest and back like fingertips. It pulls a shiver out of him as the heavy air swirls, circling him much too slowly to be something natural. 

Something is definitely out here with him, Steve is certain of that. He just can't see it.

“Where are you?” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not expecting a response to be carried along with the wind, now wrapping around his waist like the arms of a lover. He gets one anyway.

 _“Come find me,”_ the breeze whispers against his ear, and it’s so soft that for a moment, Steve believes he’d merely imagined it. But it speaks again, and Steve sucks in a startled breath when lips he can’t see touch his own, pressing a cold kiss that tastes faintly of water lilies to his parted mouth. _“Find me. Catch me. Claim me.”_

“What?–Where?” Steve finds himself asking against all reason, only belatedly realizing that the voice in the wind wasn’t speaking in English. It’s older than that. Ancient, even, if Steve has to describe it. He’s never heard that language before, but somehow, he understands it perfectly. 

“where are you?" Steve asks again, feeling unmoored and frantic. "Where are you?!”

Just as abruptly as it started, everything stops. The wind dies without warning, taking the ghostly presence with it, and Steve is left standing by the edge of the Black Lake, shaken by the unexplainable nature of what he’d just experienced. 

“—what the _fuck_ was that?” Steve breathes, raking a hand through his wind-swept hair as he warily glances around. There are ripples in the water at the center of the lake, spreading out lazily as if a large stone had just fallen into it. Steve never did hear a splash.

* * *

* * *

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•☆•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

It takes quite a bit of time for Steve to settle down after that, to stop himself from staring expectantly at the lake and frowning mournfully when nothing emerges from it, or to talk himself out of taking one more lap around the perimeter of his home; checking for breaches in its security that he knows he won't find.

Whatever was out here with him earlier is gone now, and try as he might to prove otherwise, it left no trace of itself behind for Steve to follow.

Eventually, Steve retreats to the relative safety of the cabin, locking it up nice and tight just as he always has before. It's not impenetrable by any means, the mess in the kitchen is proof enough of that, but it calms the animal part of Steve’s brain that's pushed him into an uncomfortable sense of hypervigilance.

He tries to burn off the residual anxiety that’s still festering underneath his skin by focusing on the kitchen, sweeping up the shards of glass and ceramic that once made up his dinnerware. Thankfully, a few plates and cups are still salvageable, but most of it is shattered beyond saving, as he’d assumed it would be. But upon closer inspection, Steve notes that a few of his butter knives are missing from the set, which is odd, when Steve really thinks about it. 

But to be fair, everything surrounding that particular encounter is odd. At first, Steve assumed that he might have been dealing with some faction of Hydra that was experimenting with the occult, or maybe even an Avenger-type being with abilities like Loki and Thor. Schmidt had been utterly obsessed with Norse mythology, and Steve remembers all too clearly the extreme lengths he’d gone to harness an otherworldly power he couldn’t contain. It wouldn't be completely outside the realm of possibilities to think that Hydra had opened a door to the other side, sending whatever had come through after Steve in retaliation. Of course, that theory falls flat when Steve recalls that the unseen force hadn’t tried to harm him in any way.

Despite the mess they’d made of Steve’s kitchen, Steve senses that whatever’s out there is friendly towards him. Perhaps even a bit _too_ friendly, if that kiss means what he thinks it does.

A sigh is pulled from his mouth as he shuffles into the bathroom, splashing a bit of cold water on his face when his mind effortlessly drifts right back to it. But the feeling of ice on his skin only strengthens the hold their touch still has on him.

 _God_ , he thinks, _that kiss..._

Steve shivers at the thought of it, calling back the memory of fingers on his skin, cool and gentle; caressing bare flesh that hasn’t felt a lover’s touch since Arnie. His mind eagerly chases after the phantom sensation of lips on his, even though he knows he really shouldn’t. But it’s almost impossible for him _not_ to think about it when Steve can still taste their kiss on his tongue; the light sap of water lilies clinging to his lips like honey. Steve can’t help but crave more. Just one more taste to sate the dormant hunger it’s awakened in him–the _need_ for cool skin to press against his own heated flesh.

It startles him to think of such things when he doesn’t yet know who this being is or what it’s capable of. This could very well be an elaborate trap used to ensnare him, and whatever they are, it’s obvious that Steve himself is the prize they’re after.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•☆•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

It’s nearly dawn when Steve finally convinces himself to crawl back into bed. He’s exhausted, as he usually is when sleep becomes an elusive enigma, scattered to the forewind by the demons lurking inside his fucked up mind. His nightmares tend to keep him up for days on end, and Steve will force his body to run on fumes until he finally collapses into the dreamless sleep he craves. 

Steve’s never been under the illusion that coming out here will heal his broken spirit, but it's better than the alternative. To Steve, the thought of staying in the city, of pulling that damned suit on, again and again, fighting in perpetuity alongside strangers that only see value in his outer strength, is a fate much worse than the icy tomb he was pulled from. 

Initially, Natasha tried to convince him to stay, most likely on Fury's behalf, who wouldn’t take no for an answer no matter what Steve said. But there must have been something profound reflecting in his eyes when he pleaded his case to her, because rather than turn him in when he threatened to run, she helped him disappear.

The sanctity of the forest he now lives in wasn’t the cure he hoped it would be, and even after almost a century of warfare and death, those haunting images still plague him. Sleep was never a welcome thought for Steve, but after that kiss, something inside of him has changed. 

Steve can sense it as he lays his head down against the pillow, settling against the mattress he’d always thought was far too soft for his liking. Sleep takes hours of tossing and turning for Steve to ultimately achieve, but now, however, the second he closes his eyes, he finds himself slipping away.

Steve sighs blissfully, and darkness takes him.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•☆•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

A pair of icy blue eyes are there to greet him as he drifts off, peering out from the darkness of his bedroom like beacons of blue flame. There’s a slight dip in the mattress at the foot of his bed, where the faceless figure sits, silently watching him from the shadows. It should be a terrifying sight to behold, knowing that this being followed Steve into the darkened corners of his mind, but for the first time in his very long life, Steve isn’t afraid.

As if it can sense this, the figure shifts in the darkness, moving slowly into the beam of moonlight spilling into the room through the window. Pale hands press down against the mattress as they crawl up the bed towards him, and Steve stills as his gaze slides up a pair of smooth, lean arms to settle upon a face he’s never seen before. 

The breath is stolen from his lungs as he takes in the delicate beauty of the man before him, now carefully straddling Steve’s waist; his soft, creamy thighs pinning Steve to the bed underneath him. The man is dressed in flowing swaths of pale blue silk, the sleeveless robe loosely wrapping around his bare torso. But it’s his liquid eyes that really capture Steve’s attention; those deep, swirling pools of grey and blue, perfectly mirroring the lucid waters of the lake behind his home. There’s a crown of water lilies haloed around his head, the blooming flowers tucked behind the slightly elvish points of his ears.

Steve’s hands itch to touch him, to run thick fingers through the locks of his chestnut hair, carelessly flowing in silky curls over the gentle slopes of his shoulders as if he were submerged in water. The light blue-ish tint to his skin gives away the otherworldly nature of this ethereal being, perched purposefully on Steve’s lap, gazing down at him with an utterly besotted look burning in the windows of his eyes.

It’s a look Steve feels wholly unworthy of. 

“This is a dream.” Steve suddenly says, confident in his assumption that none of this could possibly be real. The man frowns as Steve attempts to sit up on the bed, and a firm hand presses on the center of his chest to stop him, wordlessly urging him to lie back down, and Steve is helpless not to obey.

“Do you want it to be?” The man asks in return. His voice is naturally breathy, echoing around the inside of Steve’s skull, leaving him dizzy and a bit dazed in the wake of its beauty. 

“I don’t know,” Steve confesses, shocked by the truth of his answer. “My dreams aren’t often kind to me. I don’t want this to be another nightmare.”

“Fear not, my sweet Atlas,” he coos, and strangely, the last bit of tension Steve’s muscles were holding on to seems to bleed right out of him, turning his spine to molten liquid at the gentle sound of his voice, crashing into Steve like waves against the shore. Cool fingers touch the slope of Steve’s forehead, softly brushing against the crooked line of his nose, down the heated skin of his cheeks.

“I see it,” The man continues, tracing the curve of Steve’s mouth with his soft fingertips. “The burden you carry. The weight of the world rests on your shoulders, but you needn't carry it any longer. You came out here to be free, did you not?”

Steve has a feeling that he doesn’t need to answer, but he nods all the same. The man hums and leans down, shifting his weight ever so slightly, blanketing Steve’s body with his own. 

“Then be free. This is a good dream, my love. Enjoy it.” 

The blankets are effortlessly drawn back with a quick tug of his wrist, as are Steve’s boxers, which are quickly shoved down to bunch around his knees; exposing him. Steve blinks up at the man in bewilderment, a stern opposition already forming on the tip of his tongue the second he realizes what the man means to do with him. But his words of protest turn to ash in his mouth when he feels those same cool fingers wrapping tightly around the heated length of Steve’s cock, stroking gently at the slight hardness resting in his palm.

Steve’s mouth falls open, and a breathy groan he doesn't quite recognize crawls out from his throat. He sounds debauched and needy, even to his own ears as the man coaxes Steve to full hardness. He seems pleased enough to have dragged such a wanton sound from a man as stoic and withdrawn as Steve, but it's obvious that he's craving more than just that.

"That's it," he coos, working his wrist in a smooth motion. Up and down, slow and steady. Steve’s eyes want to close against the sensation, but he forces them to stay open. He can't tear his gaze away from this man, not even for a second, because Steve doesn't know what will happen if he does. Will he disappear? Fade into the darkness, never to be seen again? The thought alone sends Steve into a blind panic.

The man, however, seems to sense this abrupt change in Steve. He places his free hand on Steve’s chest, pressing down firmly against the pounding drum of his. heart.

"I'm here. You can let go, my love. Let go and give yourself to me, body and soul. I want it. Want you. I have wanted you for so long...so very long." 

In his addled state, Steve isn't sure what he means by that, but still, it's a comfort to hear him say it nonetheless. There's a knowing glint in the man’s hooded eyes that Steve can't quite decipher, but the way his plush, pink little mouth curls up at the side reveals his intentions long before he rises to his knees to guide the cock in his hand to the slick heat of his willing hole.

The man doesn’t even hesitate, and a long, slow groan is torn from his chest as the man bears down, seating himself on Steve’s prick in one smooth glide. Instinctually, Steve’s hands settle on the man’s knees, sliding up his pretty round thighs to cradle the delicate curve of his hips. His thumbs press into the jut of the man’s pelvis as he starts to move; circling his hips as he slowly bounces on Steve’s lap.

His body opens up for Steve beautifully, tightly wrapping around Steve’s prick like a warm embrace. It's like nothing he's ever felt before, perfect in a way he can't explain, as if the body resting on top of him was made specifically for Steve. It gets his toes curling into the bedsheets, his eyes rolling back into his skull as the man rides his cock with a single-minded purpose.

 _"Christ–"_ Steve chokes out around the stuttered breath in his lungs, grasping for a name he can call out. It's only then, when his hazy vision settles upon the ethereal being lewdly perched in his lap, that Steve realizes the man doesn't have a name. But surely, that can't be right. Everyone has a name, even though this man is nothing more than a physical manifestation of Steve’s loneliness, conjured up by his subconscious.

This is a dream, Steve reminds himself as he gazes, utterly awestruck, upon the raw beauty of this heavenly creature. His eyes are lidded, and there's an eerie blue-ish glow haloing around the grey of his irises. The man's gaze hasn't wavered from Steve’s, still locked on to Steve’s face in a manner that makes him feel like prey caught in a spider's web. He's gorgeous, painfully so in the graceful way his hips move against Steve’s, but Steve can tell that he's not as unaffected by their coupling as he seems to be.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there's a telling flush that spreads from the apple of his cheeks down to the exposed plains of his chest. His pink mouth is parted, lips wet and shiny as tiny gasps and moans fall from his tongue.

Steve can't help himself any longer. He surges upward and wraps his arms around the man’s back, smoothly flipping them over and pinning the man’s back against the mattress. It's almost _too_ easy to then swoop down and claim his mouth as well, licking into that warmth to chase after the sweet flavor of lilies that bursts across his tongue.

 _"What are you?"_ Steve wants to ask, but the words die in his throat as he begins to hastily fuck into the slick heat beneath him, listening to the melodic whimpers he drives out of the man’s lungs.

The response he gets to his unspoken question comes out in a rush of strange syllables Steve can't even begin to understand. 

"What?" Steve pants, grinding lazily against what he thinks is the man’s prostate. 

"Bu–Bucchae!" He damn near yowls, raking surprisingly sharp nails down the expanse of Steve’s back. Steve can feel the slight trickle of blood running down his spine, but he couldn’t care less about it. This man could carve him wide open from chest to belly and Steve would let him without a fuss. 

For a moment, Steve is confused. "I don't–"

"My name. It's my name." The man–Bucky? At least that's what it sounded like against the buzzing in Steve’s ears–sighs against Steve’s lips, nipping lightly. "Say it. Call out my name."

Obediently, Steve does, snapping his hips to blindly chase after his pleasure. His eyes squeeze shut against the sensation steadily building up at the base of his spine, and he doesn’t fail to notice the sudden splash of warmth that pulses rhythmically between them when his cock scapes one final time against Bucky’s prostate; ripping the orgasm out of his body at the same time Steve spills inside him.

His release is blinding in intensity, whiting out his vision and turning his muscles to jelly. He collapses belly down with a whimper as it sweeps through his veins like liquid fire, and no matter how much he tries to cling to the edges of the dream, he can feel it start to slip from between his fingers.

Desperately, Steve reaches out for Bucky, but to his everlasting horror, his fingers are greeted only by the soft give of the mattress beneath him. His eyes snap open, an icy sense of dread thoroughly dousing out the flames of his pleasure, and sure enough, Steve is alone in his bedroom, lying belly down on his bed.

The sheets are bunched up by his feet, and his boxers are hanging off his hips; soaked with the evidence of his lust. 

"Bucky?" He hesitantly calls out, knowing in the back of his mind that he won't receive an answer. As expected, only silence is there to greet him.

Steve listens intently to the darkness around him, hoping to hear something, _anything_ , that tells him what he just experienced was real. Of course, no one else but Steve is here. There’s no other detectable heartbeat pumping alongside his own, no shallow breath, nor soft footsteps on the creaking floorboards. Nothing.

Though, as Steve sits up on the bed, casting a wary glance around, he spots a single flower resting on his nightstand. It's a water lily, as Steve half-expects it to be, but beside it, there's a symbol shallowly carved into the wooden surface of the table. 

A trident in the heart of a circle.

It's as clear a message as any, and suddenly, Steve’s reminded of the odd commands the voice in the wind gave him earlier that evening. _Find me. Catch me. Claim me._

Problem is, Steve doesn't even know where to start. 

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Please drop me a comment if you can❤

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Naiad of the Black Lake - fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26845819) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




End file.
